


Decorous

by Yotka



Series: Comme il faut [1]
Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Conversation, Dorks, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Sad Ending, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22074841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yotka/pseuds/Yotka
Summary: Snippets of our dorky mobster and our little general’s day-to-day life at the Smithsonian.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/Al Capone (Night at the Museum)
Series: Comme il faut [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689289
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	1. Dork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al is a dork. Napoleon is the reason they’re in this mess in the first place.

Al blew a smooth cloud of gray-white cigarette smoke into the cold night air.

The cement stairs leading up to the museum’s entrance that they sat on were growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute, and both were unanimously yet privately thinking that it would be less of a pain to stand rather than sit. Still, they remained where they were, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Well, think of it like this: even though ya majorly screwed up everythin’, I still love ya.”

“That only makes me feel worse.”

“At least I ain’t mad at ya.”

_“Yet.”_

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We have only been out here for…” He grabbed Al’s arm, pulled the sleeve up, and checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

“So?”

“After an hour passes, you will get annoyed. Then two hours, three, four, and then morning will come, and we…” Napoleon trailed off.

“We’re not gonna turn to dust. And, hey, it’s not like ya locked us out o’ the museum on _purpose_.”

Napoleon‘s forlorn expression was unwavering; if anything, he looked even more forlorn than before.

“Larry usually checks the entrance before sunrise, right?” He dipped Napoleon’s hat down over his face. “I think we’ll be fine, little man.”

Napoleon corrected his hat’s placement on his head. He did not respond.

“Stars look nice tonight, don’t they?”

“Yeah.”

Al looked over at Napoleon, this sort of playful twinkle in his eyes. “Y’know what else looks nice tonight?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes; the faintest ghost of a smile blessed his lips. He considered not dignifying such a question with a response, but ultimately gave in. Al could be an irresistible bastard when the time was right.

“What else looks nice tonight, Al?”

A monochromatic finger booped his nose. 

“The moon.”

“Hey!”

“What? Was I supposed to say somethin’ else?”

“You are — how do you say? — a _dork_.”

“No, _yer_ the dork.”

“No, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Okay, okay! So, ya seriously think _I’m_ the dork?”

“That is what I said.”

“Uh — have ya _met_ yourself?”

Napoleon knitted his eyebrows together and tilted his head to the side. “I do not understand this expression.” 

The movement reminded Al of those little cellphone videos that the miniature exhibits would sometimes show him, the ones with the tiny pug dogs cocking their heads in unison when their owner spoke in a baby voice. 

“Nevermind. But it still stands that _yer_ the dork.”

“And so are you.”

“How?”

“It is not in a _bad_ way. I like it when you are dorky.”

“Okay, but how am I a dork?”

“Oh, I do not know…” he began, trying to come up with acceptable examples. “The way you flirt, I suppose. You say funny stupid things that make me laugh. And you like to think that you are this big strong intimidating man, but you are really a sweetheart when there is nobody around but us.”

“Give me one example.”

“When we are alone and when I ask you to, you twitch your nose like a bunny to make me laugh.”

Al’s lips thinned. “That’s fair, I guess. Ya won this round.”

They sat in silence for a little while, watching the night progress. Al was completely comfortable with silence — he liked to let his mind wander sometimes, not just about the typical sexy things but about people and the museum and his boys and such. Napoleon, on the other hand, couldn’t help but grow restless.

“I like the phrase — _sweetheart_.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty common.”

“It is cute to call someone a heart that is sweet, no?”

Al grinned. “D’ya think I am a heart that is sweet, Napoleon?”

“Sometimes.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Well, it is true. Sometimes you are a heart that is sweet, other times you are a heart that is sour, and —”

“And sometimes I am a heart that is _spicy_ , yeah?”

Napoleon was quiet for a moment. God, this man could allude _any_ conversation to sex — if Napoleon shared such a lowbrow sense of humor, he might find it impressive. He only shook his head in reaction, grinning, delighted despite how stupid Al could be. 

“You are such a dork, Al.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, Larry rescues them before the sun rises!


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon blatantly trusts Al. Al is confused.

“Oh, that is fine,” Napoleon said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I trust your opinion.”

Al was taken aback. At first he wasn’t sure  _ why  _ that last part made him stop in his tracks and turn towards Napoleon with this surprised, perhaps shocked, look on his face. He was silent for a moment, thinking it over: _Trust_.

Meanwhile, Napoleon rightfully felt concerned. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, yer fine, really — it’s just…” Al trailed off.

“Just…?”

“Well, y’see, ‘round here, nobody really  _ trusts  _ me. Sometimes even  _ you _ don’t.” He said this slowly. “Most exhibits think I’m bad news. And they’re not wrong, I get it — have ya  _ read  _ my plaque? — but…”

Napoleon fixed Al’s crooked tie and looked up at him, placing his hands on his shoulders. It was a pleasantly domestic gesture. Al enjoyed the feeling it gave him and let his eyes gaze down at Napoleon warmly.

“It is fine, Al.  _ You  _ are fine. I know you better than most exhibits here. I  _ trust _ you,” he said, purposeful. Then he paused. _“Mostly.”_

“Understandable,” he agreed, and they left it at that.


	3. Handwriting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon has worse handwriting than Al. Al is shocked.

Dreamily, Napoleon watched Al as he wrote. He observed the monochromatic indents that Al’s ever so slightly furrowed eyebrows made as he concentrated on the — apparently _difficult_ — task at hand: Writing a letter.

“You are — how do you say? — making a big deal out of nothing, no?” Napoleon said.

“Larry said if I had a complaint, I needed write one out and put it in the inbox, so that’s what I’m doin’! The bastard…” he muttered, frustrated.

It was quiet for nearly five minutes; Napoleon thought it would do Al some good to let him work, even if the “work” was pretty dumb, in his opinion. Oh well. He sighed, propping his head up on his palm, elbows resting on the tabletop. The dreamy — perhaps exaggerated — twinkle in his eyes did not falter.

“You have really nice handwriting.”

“Don’t be a kiss-ass.”

He shrugged. “It is better than mine.”

At this, Al dropped his pen and whirled around to face Napoleon. _“You?”_ he exclaimed. “But yer like the… the _ultimate_ perfectionist!” He waved his hand dismissively and went back to work, muttering, “Yer probably jus’ bein’ hard on yourself or somethin’ — all of ya perfectionist-types are.”

Napoleon was about to prove Al wrong _so hard_ , he could barely contain his excitement; he stole the pen from Al’s hand and began scrawling a sentence onto the ripped-out piece of notebook paper that Al had in front of him.

“Oh, c’mon, I bet yer handwritin’ is —”

Al stared at what Napoleon had just written, dumbfounded. He could not _speak_ for a second. Finally, though, he managed a squeaky: 

“What the _fuck_.”

Napoleon’s laugh was high and uproarious. “You were not expecting my chicken’s scratch, were you?”

“Give me back my pen, ya sicko! Now _that_ is atrocious! I can’t even…” Al said, squinting his eyes and bringing his face close to the paper’s surface. “What does that even _say_?”

“It is in French. _Al a une bonne calligraphie._ It means that you have nice handwriting.”

“It could be in Arabic for all I know! Jesus Christ, Nippy! Learn how to write!”

Napoleon could not stop giggling at Al’s shock and frustration. Oh, only Al could make him laugh like that!

”I will try, little bunny, I will try.”


	4. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al teaches Napoleon how to slow dance.

“I didn’t know that ya liked jazz.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know that ya liked jazz,” Al repeated.

“What is _jazz_?”

Al just stared at Napoleon, this stupified look on his face that made the other feel nothing less of degraded. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“ _Jazz_ is the music that’s playin’ on the loudspeaker right now.” He nodded at Napoleon’s tapping boot. “It’s what yer tapping yer foot to.” 

“Oh, I did not know its name. I enjoy it. It is very different from what I am used to —”

“C’mon,” said Al, holding out his hand to Napoleon.

“What?”

“Are you deaf? _C’mon_ ,” he pressed. “Ya need to learn what jazz _really_ is. I’m gonna show ya a thing or two.”

“What will you show me?”

“Jazz ain’t supposed to be _listened_ to, it’s supposed to be _danced_ to. And since when did ya start questionin’ everythin’ I say? ‘Thought ya _trusted_ me…”

Unbeknownst to Napoleon, Al was looking to use the good ol’ guilt-trip on him; that was his usual resort when Napoleon was being oddly difficult. 

“I do…!”

“Then _c’mon_. The song’s almost over.”

Reluctantly, Napoleon took Al’s gray hand and let himself be tugged from his seated spot on the couch. Al immediately pulled him into a typical waltz, though he had to place Napoleon’s hands in the correct spots since the Frenchman did not know _how_ to dance in this particular fashion; Al then placed his own hands where they needed to be. He looked to Napoleon for a reaction.

“This is strange.”

“No, _this_ is _slow dancin’_. Now, watch my shoes. See? Now, do that, but backwards. No, no, not like that. Watch me. Dun-dun-dun- _dun_. Yeah. _Yeah._ And ya also gotta face me,” he instructed. They were slow dancing in no time, or at least _trying to_. “Yer a fast learner, aren’tcha?”

“This is still strange.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’tcha find it a _little_ romanti — hey, I told ya to face me!”

“Sorry, I need to watch my feet or I might step on yours.”

“Keep yer head up. Don’t worry; it’s a learned skill. Anyway, as I was sayin’ — ya find this romantic, right?”

Napoleon’s eyes did not leave Al’s as he contemplated. “Yes, I guess it is.”

“So yer enjoyin’ yourself, yeah?”

“Yes, it is a nice song. What is it called?”

“‘No idea.”

“Ah, the romance is overwhelming.”

Al chuckled down at him. “I jus’ wanted to do somethin’ nice for ya. Dancin’ is one of the only things that I’m good at, y’know?” he admitted. “To be honest, I’ve been a pain in the ass lately.”

“You are always a pain in the ass.”

“Well, more so than usual. There were times when I thought for _sure_ that ya were gonna strangle me to death.”

“I agree.”

“‘Guess I deserve that,” he said. “So... yer havin’ a good time?”

Napoleon only smiled up at him and, standing on his tippy-toes, pressed the quaintest of kisses to Al’s lips. “The best.”


	5. Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon dislikes it when Al’s infamously bad jokes pertain to his injuries.

“Do you mind if I have a look?”

“What are ya — a medic? Get yer grimy little child hands off of me.”

Napoleon shot him a disapproving look.

“Fine,” Al affirmed as if he was being forced to do the dumbest thing in the world.

“Sit on the counter.”

Al made a face. “Is that really necessary?”

An exasperated sign followed. _“Al…”_

“Okay, okay.”

He hopped up onto the counter. Napoleon stood before him and examined the knife wound sliced into the calf of his left leg. Enough had been done to stop the bleeding prior to Napoleon’s arrival, but he figured that Al might need some sort of doctor for this one.

“It seems you have a new injury every week,” he muttered. “I am positive that there is a _Soldiers of World War 2_ exhibit that might have a medic. We could…”

“Me n’ the boys were jus’ messin’ ‘round, honest. And then that sultan or whatever had to go ‘n take offense to a little joke — he wrestled me to the ground, for cryin’ out loud,” he explained. “People these days, amirite?”

Napoleon only shrugged; the sloppy yet deep scars had his full attention, and Al was _not_ having it.

“Speakin’ of _jus’ messin’ ‘round_ …” He spread his legs out in front of Napoleon, hugging either side of his torso. 

“Al, you are hurt! I will not…” he started, though his certainty quickly faltered, “…I _should_ not _do_ such a thing to you when you… when you need medical attention… when you are _wounded_ …”

“Oh, c’mon. It’s jus’ a little fun. Who knows, it might be my last good time before they slice off my leg.”

Napoleon winced at that. If Al’s leg had to be removed due to infection or something serious, then a one-legged young Al Capone exhibit would certainly not be deemed acceptable by the Smithsonian… 

He did not want to even consider losing Al to such a stupid little injury.

“They will not cut off your leg,” he said.

Napoleon must’ve spoken a bit too harshly, because such a serious statement seemed to douse the flame in Al’s eyes; he promptly removed his legs from Napoleon. “I was jus’ kiddin’ ‘round…”

“I know. I am sorry, I did not mean…”

“Yer such a worrywart, aren’tcha?” said Al, a smile gracing his lips, letting Napoleon know that he was not upset. His flameless eyes now had a dreamy twinkle to them. “Oh, what would I do without ya?”

“I imagine you getting into more fights.”

“Same goes for yourself, I’d assume.”

“That is true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The title of this chapter reminds me of the song “Oh, Injury” by Rasputina. It doesn’t pertain to the story at all, I just wanted to mention it because it’s a cool song.)


	6. Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon is upset. He tells Al what happened, and now they’re both upset.

“Aw, does someone need a hug?”

Napoleon was on the verge of tears; despite his pride, he was _seriously_ about to cry, and the sudden sight of Al made it all the more worse. He nearly lost it.

Nonetheless, with a quiet sniffle and an awkwardly shuffle, he approached Al’s open arms — God, this was humiliating; he felt like a _toddler_ — and hugged him. Tightly. And when those big strong arms enveloped either side of him, he felt exponentially better, though still pink in the face.

“There, there, little man, yer okay,” Al soothed, lightly clasping Napoleon’s shoulder blade. “Now, what’s all this ‘bout? What’s got ya so ruffled?”

It took him a moment, but Napoleon told him everything. Through sniffles and sobs and whimpers and tears he explained his dilemma — their dilemma — as he rigorously held back the floodgates. But Al heard every word. The news hit him like a bullet train. He didn’t want it to be true — it couldn’t be, could it? He needed a good minute to compute, let alone think of what to say.

“Ya ain’t gonna be relocated, ‘kay? Yer exhibit’s stayin’ down in the basement where it belongs. Yer exhibit’s stayin’ right here. With me. Right here. Got that?”

Oh, how Napoleon wished that were true.

A good thirty seconds passed before Al began to remove his arms and body from Napoleon’s koala-like grip. The smallest protest passed from Napoleon’s lips. It broke Al’s heart; he ultimately refrained. For another good minute they stood like that, in each other’s arms, Napoleon’s face buried in his chest. 

“I do not want to leave.”

“Yer not gonna leave.”

“I _heard_ Larry.” Napoleon looked up at Al. Eye contact has never been so difficult. “He was on the… the… the little device… the — the _cellphone_. He could not get them to budge. They… they have…” He trailed off. “He was talking to the —”

“Yer not gonna leave,” Al repeated, only a broken record. His eyes were heavy yet sweet as he looked down at his little general. “Yer not goin’ anywhere.”


	7. Lip Balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al and Napoleon discover lip balm together.

In the daytime, the indoor bench served as a resting place for the museum-goers, but at night, it served as a good spot for Al to read the modern-day newspaper. Larry managed to supply the exhibits who were interested enough in the happenings of the outside world; it was better than them being bored all nightlong. As it goes, Napoleon — never far from Al’s side, and vice versa — would occasionally ask him what he was reading about, only to earn a half-hearted “it’s hard to explain” or an “read it yourself.” 

Now, however, since the couple knew of Napoleon’s eventual relocation situation that was currently being dealt with, they had to assume the worst. Larry’s assurances did not suffice; they couldn’t be too hopeful and possibly waste the last few weeks of Napoleon’s life. 

So, when Napoleon sat next to Al on that bench, instead of Al ignoring Napoleon, he put down the newspaper and folded it. But before he could turn his head to face the man he might possibly lose in a couple of weeks, he felt a pair of lips peck his cheek. 

_ “Mwah!” _

“Wha —” Al furrowed his brows. “What is that?” He felt the spot on his cheek where Napoleon had kissed him. “Is that lip balm?”

“Yes. You can tell?”

“Yeah. Your lips — they’re a lot softer. C’mere, let me test.” He gently grabbed either side of Napoleon’s face and pulled him in for a small kiss. As he pulled away, he looked at Napoleon in contemplation. “Hmm. I like it.”

“I am glad.” He fished the lip balm from his pocket and held it in front of Al. “A black-and-white actress gave me some — her name is Ava, I think? Ava Gardner? She said that she got it from the gift shop.”

“Ah, I see. May I…?”

“Of course,” he said. 

Al undid the lid and smelled the inner substance. “Ooh, cherry.” He quickly rubbed it on and pursed his lips together a few times. Out of curiosity, he licked his lips. “Tastes good.”

“Do not eat it, you moron.” 

_ “‘Do not eat it, you moron,’” _ Al impersonated in a stupid French accent as he applied more.

“I do not say it like that. I say it with love.”

“Yer so cheeky, y’know that?” 

He sealed the lid back on. He leaned in and — again — gave Napoleon the gentlest of kisses, though it did last considerably longer than the first. Sparks flew down to his fingers, to his toes, and he couldn’t help but think about how much he didn’t want this to end, how he never wanted this to end. 

So he might’ve lost himself a bit — that was fine. Who wouldn’t lose themselves in their lovers’ lips? Napoleon certainly wasn’t complaining, though Al was sure that the little general didn’t realize the level of emotion being felt right now.

Finally, he slowly pulled away. “Whatcha think?”

“Too slippery. You applied too much.”

“Oh, boohoo.”

Suddenly, Napoleon’s attention shifted to the folded newspaper, still in Al’s hand. 

“What were you reading about?”

“It’s about a new exhibit in the museum. Here,” Al said, looping an arm around Napoleon, scooting closer. He held the newspaper for both of them to see. “She was an Italian author from the 1300s, I think. See — her name’s Christine de Pizan…”


	8. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Al laugh together.

Curled up on the sofa, they laughed about something stupid. It was one of those stomach-clenching, can’t-breath, no-holding-it-back kind of bouts. Lovingly contagious. Simultaneous.

Napoleon’s hands covered his face, which Al came to learn was what Napoleon did when he was _really_ giddy; the need to hide one’s face is often a sign of either humiliation or such pure, uproarious joy that the subconscious can only translate as extreme embarrassment. He internally congratulated himself on his well-told joke that had thrown them into this ruckus in the first place.

As they calmed down, eyes still crinkled and glowing, Napoleon removed his hands from his face and just… just kind of _looked_ at Al. They were basically tangled together, Napoleon partly laying on top of him — he didn’t have the heart to tell him that he could hardly breathe — cuddling on the couch, so it wasn’t like they hadn’t been making eye contact, but this — this _look_ was so… so _intimate_. But in a simple way. 

Al could hardly explain it. It was as if he was regarding Al’s presence and thinking to himself, “I like you a lot.” Something like that. 

“What?” was all Al could respond with, softly and playfully. Graced with a little smile.

He needed to confront this, he needed to know that Napoleon knew that it did not go unnoticed, that, in actuality, it made Al feel all warm and fuzzy and good on the inside.

“I did not say anything,” said Napoleon. He was grinning again; he still hadn’t come down from the humorous high. Instead, Napoleon pulled himself closer to Al and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Al’s ear. “What are you thinking?”

“I — nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Oh, now you _have_ to tell me.”

“Ya just — ya make me really happy, y’know?” 

“I know.”

“Woah, conceited much?”

Napoleon only smiled and — again! — regarded Al with those dark eyes that instead seemed to say, “I never want to leave.”

And suddenly he couldn’t breathe for an entirely different reason. 


	9. Wasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get drunk. In his delirium, Napoleon forgets who Al is. Cue the laughter.

It was officially the night before Napoleon’s departure. Tomorrow was the day; this would be their last night together. _His_ last night at the Smithsonian, or, alternatively, his last night _ever_. And, unfortunately, Al’s last goodbye.

But one thing was for sure: They weren’t a couple of party-poopers. They were adventurous. They liked to have fun. And they _loved_ celebrations.

Turns out, it paid to be on Larry’s good side. Out of the kindness of the night guard’s hollow heart, he allowed the exhibits to serve alcohol to each other. He supposed that, despite his efforts as a successful businessman to close the trade deal and keep the Smithsonian’s Napoleon Bonaparte exhibit in storage, it was the least he could do for his friends.

Everyone got blackout wasted. Napoleon was no exception — Al’s craziness and explosiveness had definitely rubbed off on the little general throughout the years, and now they were practically finishing each other’s sentences. It was quite an adorable development, especially for the spectators.

Currently, Al was hanging out with his fellow monochromatic buddies. They were playing a drinking game, completely off their rockers, slurring their words and laughing uproariously. They made jokes that only folk from their time would understand; Al had never felt more simultaneously homesick and tragic and joyous in his life. 

“Speaking of love, where’s that husband of yours? This is his last night — shouldn’t you two be… you know, spending it together?” a famous swimmer by the name of Duke asked.

The other black-and-whites nodded in agreement. Everyone looked to Al, who merely shrugged it off. He sipped his drink.

“I’m not too worried. ’Still got a few hours left. As for Nippy, he ran off with some o’ his pilot buddies an hour or two ago. They’re tryna get ‘im completely wasted —”

“Oh, here he comes now!” Duke exclaimed, looking past him.

Al turned his head to find Napoleon, with the help of Amelia and a few pilots, staggering out of a room. They all grinned like idiots, that shit-eating expression of a completely wasted drunkard apparent on all of their glowing faces.

“One sec,” Al told to his friends.

He got up and approached Napoleon, weary of what the man might say or do when batshit drunk. Come to think of it, Al realized that he had never even _seen_ Napoleon tipsy, let alone wasted.

He decided to play it cool. “What’s goin’ on, Nippy?”

Napoleon’s eyes fell on Al; he let out an incredulous gasp.

_“Un beau gosse!”_ (A hunk!)

Napoleon then looked at Amelia, as if to say “You’re seeing this, right? I’m not dreaming?” Amelia only giggled and nodded in encouragement. Her eyes were glazed and lidded; she was clearly in the kind of mood where everything is downright hilarious. The pilots had scattered by now, but Amelia remained alongside Napoleon to act as his crutch, propping up the clumsy ol’ oaf.

Turning away from an unresponsive drinking buddy, Napoleon’s attention returned to Al. He furrowed his eyebrows, muttering something in a tangle of French blathers. He was trying — and failing — to remember English, it seemed.

“Do… do I… I _know_ y-yo-you?”

“Yer so off yer head,” Al chuckled, lovingly amused and a little concerned given the circumstances.

Suddenly, Napoleon gave Al a very noticeable once-over, his eyes taking too much time on the — _ahem!_ — lower regions. His eyes flicked back to Al’s face. Napoleon was truly in awe; his eyes widened like a great pair of saucers and he pursed his lips, as if afraid to speak. Al felt like a God in his eyes! 

_“Tu es beau…”_ breathed Napoleon. (You are handsome…)

Al had known him for a couple of years so it was only natural that, by now, he could decipher moderately simple French sayings such as this. _“Merci,”_ he thanked. Wasn’t that the word for “thank you”? His head was so damn foggy; he hoped so, anyhow.

“You…” Napoleon began, “you are… are _so_ out of my league.” He was positively _dazzled_. “I — _mon Dieu_. I want… want to marry you one day, _Monsieur_.”

“We’ll see,” he said. Oh, this was rich!

Napoleon then stepped closer, and things suddenly got a bit more flirty.

_“Je peux vous offrir un verre?”_ he purred. (Can I buy you a drink?)

Al looked to Amelia. She shrugged, patted Napoleon’s shoulders, and staggered off to find her fellow pilots. Al would have to deal with Drunk Nippy™ on his own.

_“Oui,”_ he replied, unsure of what he just agreed to, but happy to use one of the only French words he knew nonetheless.

_“Ah, t’es trop charmante,”_ Napoleon replied humorously, as if struggling to comprehend Al’s mere presence. (Ah, you’re charming.)

He then leaned close, looked up at Al, and, as if he were a first-grader revealing their deepest, darkest secret, whispered, _“Je t’apprécie.”_ (I like you.)

“I like ya too.”

Oddly enough, that seemed to break the spell, and Napoleon blinked a couple of times, confused. He seemed to have regained his perception of the English language in that strange moment of clarity.

“You do?”

“Well, I sure hope I do.” He decided to break the news: “I married ya, after all.”

Now _that_ shattered Napoleon’s entire concept of reality.

“Oh my god…!” he gasped. “We are married? I _married_ you? How…”

“Kind of. We don’t got any rings or nothin’, no big weddings ‘cause we agreed that we don’t like those, but yeah,” he explained. “Ya proposed to me. We went out n’ had ice cream afterwards.”

“I love ice cream…” 

“I know, I’ll getcha some later. How’re ya feelin’?”

“Very nice.” 

Al couldn’t stifle his own laughter. “Nippy, don’tcha lookit me like that. My God — ya look _high_.”

It was true; Nippy’s eyes were quite pink and particularly glazed. “I am happy, that is why. It is not everyday that you learn that you are married to such a pretty man.”

“Yer full of it, ya lil’ siren.”

Napoleon only hummed — probably because he did not understand such an American phrase — and wrapped his arms around Al’s waist, pulling him close. He looked up at him smugly. His neck craned in order to bring his lips closer to Al’s.

_“J’ai envie de t’embrasser,”_ came the quiet, slurred request. (I’d like to kiss you.)

“By all means, go ahead.”


	10. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s over. For both of them.

_He’s gone._

Al was not a crier. He was not emotional. Not empathetic, not sensitive. If anything, he was one of those silent drama queens who stared longingly out of windows and quietly sat in the dark, listening to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, when he felt sad. 

Right now, Al was sad. But there was no rain on this fine Virginian night and no windows could be found in the storage unit, so the darkness would have to suffice. He stood alone. Hands in his pockets. In front of him, the rungs where the _Napoleon Bonaparte_ exhibit’s crates used to be stood empty. 

_Everything’s gone._

It was dark. Dimly-lit. Not a soul or a sound in the entirety of the museum’s vast storage could be heard or seen. Just the monochromatic silhouette of Al, staring down at where those damn crates used to be, where they _should_ be, where he _wants_ them to be.

_But they’re not._

“Look at it this way,” he told himself. “No more Nippy means no more o’ those fancy French soldiers prancin’ ‘round the coup like they own the damn place. They could hardly even speak a lick o’ English.”

His words fell short. Their whispery echoes traveled high and low until Al couldn’t hear anything at all.

He was sad. 

He was so, so sad. 

“I’ve never been good wit’ words,” he said to the emptiness that hovered before him. The darkness stared back, provocative. “Y’know that better than anyone else. Ya were a real friend, y’know? I liked ya so much. So much. We were more than friends — a lot more — but on top of the sex ‘n romancin’ ‘n all, ya were always there for me, weren’t ya? I never felt alone.”

Al did not like where this was going. He felt like he was at a funeral, like he was giving a memorial speech or something. Napoleon hadn’t died; not really. But while it was difficult, he could also feel himself beginning to feel a little better. 

“Is this what closure is? I don’t know what that word means. Maybe… God, why do my eyes hurt so much?” he mumbled, wiping his eyes. “Ya would know what ‘closure’ means. Ya were always so smart.”

_Goddamnit, stop crying._

He sniffled. “I’m such a girl… but I miss ya. This is my first night without ya. Did ya know that? My very first one. It feels so weird. No little Frenchie tellin’ me what to do, no one grabbin’ my ass every five seconds, nobody gettin’ the two of us into trouble…” He cracked a small smile. “Nah, it was me. I was always gettin’ us into trouble. I dunno how ya put up wit’ me. ‘Loved me like ya did.”

The empty rungs remained empty. Al didn’t know what he was doing anymore; by now, he was just wasting time. He should get back upstairs. But what good would that do? Everyone in the museum was treating him like a damned baby. He didn’t want to face their downcast gaze, their sentimental it’ll-be-okays and their tearful I’ll-miss-him-toos. Not now. 

He looked to his shoes and then closed his eyes, conjuring an image of Napoleon. _C’mon, jus’ a little longer…_

“Well,” he said, opening his eyes. “This is it, huh? This is all the closure I’m gonna get.”

He turned to leave. The storage unit’s hallways seemed more long and narrow than he recalled. He had always walked down them alongside Napoleon; he walked his husband back to his crate every night before sunrise.

It was different now. Darker. Less friendly; somber. Like the room understood that there had been a passing of a dear friend and dressed itself appropriately for the depressing occasion. 

He rode the elevator up to the museum; he dealt with the mournful occupants. Amelia was especially talkative.

_We were such an odd couple_ , he thought as she gave him her long and sorrowful condolences. _He was short and chubby and uptight and colorful and French, and I’m… the opposite. But we worked so well together. Ain’t that funny? We were a real power couple, weren’t we, Nippy?_

Amelia spoke of many things, perhaps fond memories or coping advice; Al did not listen. He was too far gone. He felt himself slipping away, as if his brain was trying to reset itself, trying to reverse what had happened. It wanted him to feel better, to feel good again. _Remember when you felt good?_ Al had been so happy for the last five, maybe six years. Sure, things were a little rocky sometimes, but Napoleon was always there. And now that he was gone — truly gone — Al couldn’t handle it. 

As he blankly regarded the museum — eyes dark and uninterested — one question remained in his mind, echoing through the empty storage unit inside his heart: 

_What am I gonna do now?_


End file.
